Do not go gentle
into that good night.
Old age should burn
and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage
against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end
know dark is right,
Because their words
had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by,
crying how bright
Their frail deeds
might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage
against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught
and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late,
they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death,
who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze
like meteors and be gay,
Rage,
rage
against the dying of the light.
And you,
my father,
there on the sad height,
Curse,
bless, me now
with your fierce tears,
I pray.
Do not go gentle
into that good night.
Rage,
rage
against the dying
of the light.